Filling in the Details
by bouncingcrow
Summary: A vague account tracing the history of Agents Barton and Romanova. Short with intentional repetition. Rated T for suggestions at the end. **Disclaimer: I obviously make no money from this and claim neither as my own.


The woman is a silhouette in the window – an hourglass shadow, curves in all the most dangerous and delicious places. Any man would feel blessed to have this view of this window. The light behind the shadow goes out, and now there's just a dim outline. She's naked now, he knows, but the distance and darkness inside the room make the details negligible, though his mind can fill those in easily enough.

But he needs to be focused, so he ignores those details; he ignores the color of her skin, or the way the tone changes over the scars he knows she has. He ignores the striking color of her eyes, a color that changes with contacts depending on the job. He knows that her fingernails and toenails are painted red, that it's cold out, so her breasts end with taught nipples.

He ignores all of it and focuses his sights on the windows. His sights are deadly; they are not lustful or imaginative. They are sharp and calculating, so these details that the dark shades from him are of no concern. He is sharp and calculating, and he does ignore the details of the woman in the window, but still his hand hesitates over the string of the bow. Something stays it, though he is unsure what it is.

The Black Widow is a silhouette in the window – an hourglass shadow, curves in the most dangerous and delicious places. And he knows just how dangerous she is, but the poor sap that has been drawn into her web has no clue. She's almost naked now, he knows, and the distance and darkness inside the room make the details negligible, but the lights she's kept on give him enough to see the target, and his fingers are itching.

The target moves into the window, too, and Hawkeye can see through the flimsy, sheer curtains. His lips press into a line, as he notices that the man is already shirtless, and the Black Widow is down to her lacy underthings, strategically placed to do the most damage.

His fingers are a little more itchy, now, watching them come together in the dim lighting. But he ignores the itch. He can fill in the details – his hand on her hip, red lips against pale pink ones, the way her legs fall into those stilettos and then on into forever – but he ignores them. He is sharp and calculating, and he does ignore these details, but his hand does not hesitate, and he finds a small sense of joy when the arrow crashes through the window, shattering the scene and finding its target.

The woman in the window turns to regard him, and though he does not see it, he knows she smiles.

Agent Romanova is a silhouette in the window – an hourglass shadow, curves in the most dangerous and delicious places. He knows how dangerous she is; he know how dangerous they are as a team, and he knows how dangerous the man in front of her is. She is in her uniform, he knows, but the tint of the windows make the details negligible. He doesn't need to see, though, because he can hear the reaming out just fine.

The outlines are close together, a screaming match within noted only by the muffled shouts and the body language apparent in the shadows. Agent Barton can't see them directly, but he knows that neither will back down, so they back away, and she heads for the door.

The door is thrown open, and the dangerous woman storms out of the room, all fire and brimstone. He stands dumbly and follows. He can fill in the details – the folder thrown on the desk, her tactics questioned backward and forward, and that subtle, passive-agressive suggestion that she is not entirely loyal to them – but he ignores them. He is sharp and calculating, and he does ignore these details, but his hand clenches into a fist. He knows his partner, and he knows that the job was fuck-up before she was assigned. His fingers dig into his palm painfully.

Nat is a silhouette behind the glass – an hourglass shadow, curves in the most dangerous and delicious places. He knows how dangerous this is. The water of the shower makes rivulets on the misted panes. The mist and distortion of the glass make the details negligible, though his mind fills those in easily enough.

Clint's mind can fill in the details; he knows the color of her skin, the discoloration and ridges of her scars, the color of her eyes when she's not wearing contacts. His mind can fill in these well enough, but he ignores them. He is sharp and calculating, so his mind instead focuses on the cold metal beneath his fingertips, the sensation of the steam pouring out from inside the shower, the slick surface of the tile beneath his toes, and the not-entirely angry grunt of recognition from the woman within.

His fingers roam over those curves, dangerous and delicious, and his lips find those red ones that have seduced so many. A hand on the hip, her long legs sliding against his invitingly, and nails drawing tight lines down his back. He knows the dance, now, and he is happy to oblige, filling in the details.


End file.
